


Snow Men

by yaycoffee



Series: 2018 Advent Challenge Ficlets (connected stories) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Fluff, Hope, M/M, Navel-Gazing, Parentlock, Renewal, Snow, a little fluff, lingering doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-14 23:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: For the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge. Prompt 4: SnowmanAdditional chapters are/will be drabbles, 221b's, and very short ficlets for prompts: 5. Believe, 6. Fireplace, 7. Memories, 8. Music, and 9. GiftI'll possibly add more prompts here as time goes on, and I'll update tags (and rating?) as necessary.





	1. Snow Men

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thanks to [Youngdarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngdarling/pseuds/youngdarling), who slapped my wrist a couple of times and gave a lot of encouragement and good advice. 
> 
> Also, much love to [SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror) for helping me with Fancy Music terms and being just an all-round awesome person.
> 
> Also, if you want to listen to the song that was the top-to-bottom inspiration for this piece, go [here and listen to "Snow"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK-lCmlwOGQ). If I even sort of captured the feeling from this song, then I did what I wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to [Youngdarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngdarling/pseuds/youngdarling), who slapped my wrist a couple of times and gave a lot of encouragement and good advice. 
> 
> Also, much love to [SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror) for helping me with Fancy Music terms and being just an all-round awesome person.
> 
> Also, if you want to listen to the song that was the top-to-bottom inspiration for this chapter, go [here and listen to "Snow"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK-lCmlwOGQ). If I even sort of captured the feeling from this song, then I did what I wanted to.

_If I go out in the morning snow/_ _In my pajamas and my winter coat_

 _And take from the house our darker thoughts/_ _And take away the memory of loss_

 _And if I drop them into the snow/_ _Will we never find them anymore?_

 _To see him/_ _To see him happy_

The Innocence Mission - “Snow”

 

 

Sherlock listens to the water running in the shower, to the small sounds of movement: of bottles clunking against tile, intermittent splatters as a body moves beneath the spray.   John’s body.  Sherlock grins into his pillow and wonders how to translate the rasp of a towel, the clink of a razor, into notes on a violin because this is _symphonic_.  It’s been far too long since he listened to this particular melody, and his smile fades when he remembers why.  

He left.  He _left_.  And so did John.

They wrap their scarves close around their throats as they leave.  Tube there, taxi back--because of the bags, and if they hurry, they might miss the worst of the weather.  John will call an estate agent for the house on Monday at work, but he and Rosie will need a few things before the movers can get the rest.  John lists them off, planning--and Sherlock _listens_.  He mentally pens each rise and fall of John’s voice as notes on the page, circles and dots gliding along the manuscript staff.

“Are you even listening?” John asks, and Sherlock feels his own face fall, hates that he even has to ask.  But, he knows, Sherlock  _knows_ that John has to ask for a reason: because Sherlock spent far too long _not_ listening.  They both have, really.  Far too long.

“You’ll need at least four changes of clothes and your phone charger and laptop, and Watson will need the only cup she’ll actually drink from.  Oh, and your own shampoo and soap so you don’t _go round smelling like a posh git_.”  Sherlock’s eyes slide his way, lip curling on one side.  He catches John’s eyes, willing, _willing_ him to understand what has changed.

John stops on the pavement and turns to look Sherlock full in the face.  His cheeks are pink from the cold, hair windblown and flopping in the front, and his smile reaches the farthest corners of his eyes, and Sherlock--loves him.

John takes a breath to speak, but doesn’t, not right away.  A small shake of his head and then, “Let’s go this way,” he says, pointing toward the park with his gloved hand.  

It is uncomfortably cold out, and this is not the way to the station, but that’s all right.  It is Saturday, and there is nothing to do but this. As they walk, John’s shoulder brushes his, and they are quiet, a _rest_.

It’s busier than usual for a day so cold, but it’s almost Christmas, and tourists and Londoners alike are there to take photos in front of the tree, to listen to the choir of carolers.  John slows and then stops before them, watching. His eyes narrow against the cold, and he sniffs, but his lips move, only just, silently forming the words along with them.

 _In the meadow, we can build a snowman_ , they sing--but the real music is in the rustling of John’s coat, in the breath puffing from his mouth in quarter time, a delicate white curl.  Sherlock wonders if he were to press in, ear against John’s mouth, would he hear his voice?

Sherlock thinks about those beautiful curling breaths, about how quickly they go, dissipating into nothing by the time the next one comes.  He wants to catch one, hold it in his hand to prod at it with a finger, perhaps store it in a vial to put under a microscope slide for further examination-- but those are impossible things to want.  He cannot stop time any more than he can change the past-- the hurt and the heartache, regret, and so much loss. Is it possible for their shared darkness, so deep in too many spots, to ever be completely lifted?

The choir sings next of a guiding star, a light in the darkness; Sherlock steps closer, enough that their arms brush, John’s fingers against his own, solid but muffled by two layers of gloves.  He can’t feel John’s body heat, but that’s all right; he knows where it truly lies--underneath the layers: vest, shirt, jumper, coat, scarf.  John is covered in things designed to keep the human body warm, but Sherlock knows that the genuine source of warmth is _inside_ all of that, muscle and blood, and the heart that makes it all move, _beating_ , keeping time.

John notices him looking, and his hand comes to light at the small of Sherlock’s back, a caress over his coat, and Sherlock smiles at him with lips pressed together.  

“You ready?” he asks.

“Whenever you are,” Sherlock replies, and John leads them back toward the street.

The snow started sometime between Baker Street and John’s house, while they were underground.  They emerge from the station to a world being covered. Large, lacy flakes swirl in the air, and as they walk, they stick to their lashes, make their way into nostrils and the seams of their lips.  

By the time they reach John’s house, the snow has accumulated enough to cover everything.  No crack in the pavement, no fallen leaf--nothing but a rising blanket of white.

Everything even _sounds_ different now: quieter, brighter, sparkling in places.   _Decrescendo_.  Snow has clung to John’s shoulders, hair, arms, shoes; brilliant white in flecks and patches, swallowing him up.  

As they step up to the front door, John laughs, touselling Sherlock’s hair.  “You’re covered,” he says, and the snow flutters down, adding to what’s already there.  It crunches beneath their feet.

John kisses him then, gloved hands grabbing onto the lapels of his coat, a chaste press of lips that lingers.  John’s nose and lips are chilled, but it takes only a second to feel the warmth below.  John pulls back slowly, to open the door.

Before Sherlock goes through, he takes one more look at the changed world, made new by the snow.  He breathes in the icy air, deep, clean, and he watches the trail of it as it mists out before him, visible evidence that it happened at all.  

Turning to go in, he hums to himself--a tune he is only just learning.

 

-end-


	2. Glitter Blobs and the Beauty in Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a 221b drabble for prompt 5: Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed. Sorry about the embarrassing mistakes ;-)

John dumps the old water from the kettle and fills it fresh.  He huffs a bit as he does, lip turning up, remembering the last time he was here doing just this.  It was yesterday morning, Rosie singing  _ Ru-doff  _ happily from her chair while he made her breakfast.  He’d been looking forward to a couple days’ respite--Christmas shopping, dinner with Sherlock, maybe a film at the cinema free of talking animals, a Sunday lie-in.  

He thinks about how quickly things change; the kettle boils.  His whole adult life has been formed of quick changes: shoulder, Sherlock, Sherlock’s death, Mary, Rosie, Mary’s death.  Has he ever actually done anything slowly--other than grieve? 

Two mugs, two teabags, milk from the fridge.  

A sugar paper Father Christmas with a cotton wool beard flaps at him when he does.  He tilts his head at it and looks a bit closer while the tea steeps.  It’s got little blobs of glue in spots, a wonky belt, and glitter smeared over the eyes.  Rosie has written her own name with the S backwards and none of the lines on the E connecting at all. It’s  _ beautiful _ .  He knows that in a year’s time, her work will look different, better.  

Everyone has to start somewhere. 

Across the top, filled in with a child’s scribble, is the word  _ believe _ .


	3. Hearth and Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 221b drabble for the prompt: Fireplace

It only takes Sherlock a moment to work out the fireplace.  Merely the the press of a button, and immediately, the room glows deep gold, looks less cold.  There is some heat from it, but it’s different than Baker Street. 

It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t  _ like  _ John’s house; he just isn’t here very often.  It’s not his home, and it never has been. He always feels decidedly like a guest when he’s here.  Even now, he feels compelled to stay in the lounge while John makes tea rather than following him into the kitchen as he would do if he (if they) were home.

He looks at the frames on the mantel: one of John and Rosie from a professional photographer, taken just this autumn, and one of Mary, John, and infant Watson at her christening.  His eye stops at a third, a printed phone photo, one Sherlock has never seen before: Rosie’s second birthday party. John is holding Rosie, mouth against her bright blue fist.  She is giggling at Sherlock, who has a vivid streak of frosting along his cheek where she had just smeared it.  Sherlock is laughing, meeting John’s eyes. He wonders who took it, Mrs Hudson?  Molly?

The firelight shifts, but makes no sound.  He blinks. Home is _here_ \--in this photo, he just never realised it before.


	4. In.  Out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a 221b drabble for prompt 7: Memories  
> (this one got a little angsty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed. Sorry about the embarrassing mistakes ;-)

John knows he will have some difficult decisions ahead when he comes back to do this for real--pack.  Now, though; this is simple. He mentally goes through his coming week and picks out the shirts and trousers, socks and underwear that will get him through, and he packs a bag.  

It isn’t the first time he’s stood before this wardrobe and packed this very bag.  Ages ago. Yesterday. His hand trembles, and he opens and closes a fist, willing it calm.  Sherlock is fine. He is _fine_ , and he is just in the next room, and he is not unconscious, flatlining in the operating theatre.  

John breathes.

In the bathroom, he stuffs his kit with soap, shampoo, and that stuff the stylist talked him into last time he went in.  Toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. Cologne. Anything else? Shaving cream and his razor, extra blades (wouldn’t want to cut himself on a dull one), and he can see it bloom in his vision, a spreading pool of red against a white carpet.  

Who _would_ Sherlock bother protecting?

He braces his hands on the counter.

He jumped.  He _planned your bloody wedding_.  He wrote.  He waited.  

The cold of the tile seeps through his trousers at his backside.  Head down. In. Out.

Sherlock is _fine_ , and he is in the next room.

John breathes.


	5. The Depth and Complexity of Jumpers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a 221b drabble for prompt 8: Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed. Sorry about the embarrassing mistakes ;-)

John.  John.  Are you all right?

 

Yeah.  Yes.  I’m fine.

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . . 

 

Do you want--

 

Just--talk to me.

 

Okay.  What should I--

 

Doesn’t matter.  Anything.

 

Right.  . . . There were nearly double the amount of murders in the city of London this year than last.  Knife crimes in particular have skyrocketed--

 

Maybe--something else?

 

Okay.  . . . Your tile is cold.  

 

I know.

 

And uncomfortable.

 

That, too.

 

. . .

 

It smells of you in here.  I like it.

 

Do you?

 

Mm.

 

Good.

 

. . .

 

I’d like to keep bees one day.

 

Bees?

 

Yes, bees.  

 

Why?

 

Because they’re fascinating.  The perfect juxtaposition of simple and complex.  And--

 

And?

 

They wear striped woolly jumpers.

 

What?  You’ve got to be joking!

 

What!

 

You think they’re--cute?

 

Well.  Yes.

 

Bees.

 

Bees.

 

. . .

 

Are you okay?

 

Better now.  Hm.  Better.  Thanks.

 

Do you-- want.  To talk about it?

 

I do.  I don’t know if I _can_.

 

I’m right here, John.

 

I know.  

 

. . .

 

I’ve been a bit shit to you.

 

Mm.  . . .  That’s a street that goes both ways, I’m afraid.

 

Right.  Hm; right.

 

. . .

 

I like that.

 

What?

 

Your hand on my neck.

 

Mm.

 

Your voice in my ear.

 

John.

 

Say it again.

 

John.

 

Jesus, that’s beautiful.  

 

John.

 

. . .

 

Sherlock... isn’t a girl’s name.

 

I know.

 

There’s something I should say.   . . .   I always meant to say but never have, and

 

Sherlock, you don’t have--

 

I love you.

 

I love you, too.

 

. . .

 

Bees.

 

Bees.


	6. A New Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final 221b to round out this series. Real Life got in the way of me doing all of the prompts, but before the new year, I wanted to finish this sweet little story. It's all going to be all right. 
> 
> this is for the final prompt: Peace
> 
> ... as is my wish for all of you! 
> 
> Happy New Year!

 

John meets Harry at Speedy’s for Rosie.  The smell of her baby shampoo head is like heaven, and he’s so glad to see her again.  He doesn’t get to savour the moment long; she’s squirmy, hyped up on sugar and has that look in her eyes like she hasn’t slept enough.  It must have been a good weekend, then.

 “So, little brother,” Harry says.  “What’s up?”  She’s got a knowing gleam in her eyes.

“Well,” John says, sipping his tea, ignoring Mr Chattergee behind the counter.

He doesn’t get to finish because Harry starts to laugh. “Oh, Johnny.” She places a hand over his own.  “I’m just sorry you didn’t do this two years ago!”

John huffs.  It’s laughter.  “Me, too.”  It strikes him—how true this is.  He’d spent far too long running.

Rosie drains the rest of her cocoa and hops down from her seat.  “Sh-lk,” She says, shimmying her little bottom, dancing. “Shk, sh--loooook.”  She knows this place.  John smiles. 

“Soon, Rose,” he says.

He and Harry catch up briefly, making plans for Boxing Day, and then she leaves.

John takes Rosie’s little hand, leads her upstairs.  She takes the steps slowly, but when she gets to the landing, Sherlock is waiting for them both.

“Watsons!” he says, smiling, hands out for both of them.  “You’re back!”

-End-

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this one took me so long! 
> 
> So, I'm making this up as I go along (both the story itself AND the nuts-and-bolts of organizing it here), flying by the seat of my pants here! And, I think I've decided this: If a ficlet is under 1k words, I will attach it to the story that goes before it or after it, as either a prelude or a coda in its own chapter. This way, I could do some drabbles, 221b's, or much smaller snapshots sometimes and not have to clog up the works at all with those tiny things. Anything over 1k will likely get its own posting because I want the freedom to work inside this universe but play with tone. IT'S CHRISTMAS AND I WANT TO WRITE SOMETHING OVERTLY FLUFFY AND GOOEY OKAY... maybe even something silly :-)) I'll title the series properly once it's done. Also, the best way to make sure you're in the loop when it comes to updates is to subscribe either to MEEEEEE ;-) ... or the series itself, rather than the individual stories since I'll never know which ones will have additional chapters until it happens. 
> 
> Also--find me over at [Dreamwidth](https://yaycoffee.dreamwidth.org/) or [Tumblr](http://yaycoffee.tumblr.com/)!


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